


Promptober 2019

by IvyM



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Flufftober, Kinktober, Loosely cohesive, October Prompt Challenge, Promptober, Promptober 2019, Smut, Whumptober, canon adjacent, iRex, major deviation from canon, prompts, writing challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-09 08:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyM/pseuds/IvyM
Summary: Phoebe Cousland is not the Hero of Ferelden. That would be her twin sister. Phoebe's just a mage and a disappointment to her family, but she falls into an adventure whilst her sister's off defeating the Blight.Not a linear story, but a collection of drabbles starting in a vaguely canon order, but it will quickly devolve into chaos. It will be hurried, some chapters will be short, I might not catch all the spelling errors, but it should be fun. I hope you enjoy it!There will be 16 Fluff chapters, 10 Whump chapters, 5 Kink chapters. As such, the work is rated E even though it'll mostly be quite PG. Any content warnings will be listed at the start of the chapter and tags will be updated as I go.





	1. 1 - Royalty (Fluff)

“You two girls will be on your very best behaviour,” it took every ounce of Phoebe Cousland’s willpower to contain the scowl that threatened to spill onto her face at the stern words. Instead she gave the smallest of deferential nods to her governess.

“Yes, Nanny,” she chorused, hearing her twin sister’s voice rise with hers. This wasn’t their first royal visit and they’d managed to keep out of trouble the other times. At the very least, any trouble they might have created had been low key enough that no one had traced it back to them.

The two young girls were dressed in their finest day clothes; dresses which had been ordered from Antiva specifically for the occasion, and painstakingly altered to fit the delicate Cousland sisters. Thea was bedecked in the family crest’s corn-gold, whilst Phoebe was in the darker blue of the banner’s background. This was happening all the more often - Thea was pushed to the front and Phoebe, for her shortcomings, was shrouded in shadow. She could have blamed her sister for her golden child status, but there wasn’t a single part of Phoebe that could hate her sister. They had been inseparable since before either could remember. The inequality stemmed solely from her parents and their fear of her affliction.

“Your majesty,” Phoebe gave a demure smile as she bobbed a formal curtsy before the king and queen. She met the prince with formal indifference, at seven years old she knew he as being lined up as a prospective match for Thea, and so he represented the unthinkable. Thea would be taken from her, locked away in the palace in Denerim, as Fergus would take over running Highever. As for Phoebe, desperate thoughts swam through her mind as she completed her mandatory greetings. The tips of her fingers began to tingle as the anxiety threatened to overwhelm her. A tiny fizzing noise accompanied the scarily familiar sensation of the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Phoebe looked down at her hands in time to see a couple of the smallest sparks jumping between her splayed fingers.

Appearing from nowhere, Thea was suddenly before her. Grey eyes locked on grey eyes as the sisters entered their own impermeable bubble. Thea’s steady hands wrapped around Phoebe’s shaking fingers, the sensation calling an end to the rising magic.

“Not here,” Thea whispered.

“I hate these people,” Phoebe’s voice was shaky, she couldn’t look away from her sister, but she knew the royals were the other side of the room, deep in conversation with her parents. The prince was laughing with Fergus as if they were close friends. They hadn’t got a clue what friendship was. No one did. No one could feel what Phoebe and Thea felt, what they meant to one another.

Later that night the two girls sat in their bedroom. The boys had been allowed to stay up after dinner, but they had been deemed too young. Nanny had tucked them in, a slight tinge of gin on her breath as she hurried back to the staff gathering belowstairs.

“Phoebe?” Thea’s voice crossed the darkness between the two beds. For a long moment Phoebe remained silent, her mouth opened, but her voice somehow lost. It was the magic; this new pervasive force which had taken over her body. For the past six months it had grown within her; swelling and festering until she could hardly get through a day without feeling like she might explode. It was wrong; bad in some way. Good children didn’t get blighted by this affliction.

“They’ll send you to court,” she sighed. “I figured that much out. I just can’t figure out how they’re going to explain why I’m not there.”

“You’ll be there,” there was a rustling of covers as Thea slipped from her bed. She padded softly across the room. Phoebe counted the six footfalls of the well trodden path. It was rare the girls stayed in their own beds all night, they didn’t need light to guide them. As Thea climbed into the bed, Phoebe felt the smallest of smiles start to form on her face as a realisation dawned.

“Watch this,” she whispered, keeping some space between the two of them. Tentatively she lifted her hands up in front of her, gingerly flexing her fingers. A quick flash of light accompanied a sizzling sound as Phoebe tentatively released a little of the magic she had been holding onto for months. There was a small gasp from beside her as Thea realised what was happening. Phoebe couldn’t help but to grin as she explored her power. Waggling her fingers dramatically sent sparks shooting out into the darkness of the room before fading into nothingness.

“Oh, Phoebe,” Thea’s voice was a heady mixture of amazement and anxiety. As always the twins were of the same mindset, although Phoebe was stubbornly squashing the anxious voice in her head reminding her that the Couslands couldn’t have an untutored mage living amongst them. She would have to leave the family and move to the Circle. She would have to leave Thea - that was the unacceptable consequence of her power.

“I couldn’t hold it in anymore,” she admitted, her breathing heavy after having given a twenty minute light show. “I know I mustn’t let anyone see, but I thought-”

“You did the right thing,” Thea declared firmly. “Keep it secret and we’ll work out what to do.”

“I’ll be sent to the Circle,” the threat was constantly on her mind, but speaking aloud made it suddenly real. Whatever she had been intending to say next was suddenly forgotten as her words evaporated on her tongue.

“We won’t let that happen,” Thea’s voice wobbled, belying her uncertainty. What could they do? They were just children. Phoebe could feel her eyes itching, her lip wobbling, but she stoically denied the tears. Thea was always so strong for her, it was Phoebe’s turn to be the strong one. If she had to hide her magic from everyone then she could do that. After all, the alternative was just too much to consider.


	2. 2 - Betrayal (Whump)

Time had come to a complete standstill. Phoebe couldn’t tell how long she had been confined to the guest quarters. Fearful servants, who only days before had laughed and smiled with her, were tiptoeing around her. They brought food and drink, clean clothes, water to bathe in, but she barely looked at them. All she could do was pace, unable to clear her mind of the pale face of her dear sister. The servants wouldn’t speak to her, wouldn’t answer her questions about where her sister was; it was like she had been somehow transferred to the dreamscape of the Fade. Her jail was at the back of the house, and tucked away in the least used wing, rendering her completely isolated. There was clearly a lot of activity in the house; the few domestic visitors she had came at unpredictable times, then hurried away. She was an afterthought at best, and a distraction from much more important things at worst.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth day that the idea struck her. What if Thea was dead. What if she had killed her only friend? The very notion caused her to stop in her frustrated and aimless walking, and drop to the floor. Electricity coursed through her, giving the sensation of a thousand pins lightly stippling over her skin. The almost invisible hairs on her forearms were standing to attention as her magic discharged in a physical manifestation of her pain. There were no tears a girl could cry for the death of her twin; that sort of pain ran too deep for crying. A guttural howl escaped her lips as she pressed her forehead to the wooden floorboards, her body contorting as she felt her pain.

“Stop it!” the shout took a moment to break through and catch her attention. “Pull yourself together Phoebe.” Fergus stood in the doorway, his arms stiffly by his sides.

“Where is she, Fergus?” Phoebe wept. “Did I kill her? Did I kill Thea?” A barking shade of a laugh erupted from the eldest Cousland as he fully entered the room.

“Not quite, although you gave it a good go-” he stopped in his tracks as Phoebe rose to her feet.

“I didn’t- I need to see her. Fergus please, take me to her. I promise I’ll be good, I’ll never do magic again, I’ll go to the Circle. Just please let me see her.”

“You’re doing magic as you speak,” Fergus’ voice was harsh; colder than Phoebe had ever heard it before. “You couldn’t stop even if you wanted to.” As he spoke Phoebe knew he was right. There was a halo of static energy around her. Something inside had broken and she was unable to rein in the power she had stifled for so long.

“Then let me write a letter to her. Please Fergus,” her pleading fell on deaf ears, even as the tears finally started to spill from her eyes.

“She doesn’t want to speak to you,” his words were delivered firmly, each one hammer blow to Phoebe’s fragile hold on herself. “She’s afraid of you, Phoebe. She’s bloody terrified. You’re a monster,” Fergus threw the words out, then turned on his heel and left the room, the door slamming closed behind him.

Another day passed and Phoebe barely moved. She felt utterly torn asunder, as if she were no longer a whole person. There was something missing and without it she could not function. Her tears dried up, then reappeared an hour later. What little food she did eat tasted like ash on her tongue. At some point she moved to the bed and found an empty solace in sleep, but she woke often, seemingly unable to dream.

When the templar arrived, closely followed by Teyrn Bryce Cousland, he found a silent child sprawled atop the bed. Phoebe’s black hair was tangled and had a shine to it from the lack of care it had been afforded. Her eyes were heavily ringed with dark shadows. They sprung open at the intrusion, but the grey eyes didn’t seem to focus on the two men.

“On your feet, Phoebe,” her father’s voice commanded. It took a moment, but eventually the young girl complied. “Do forgive my daughter’s appearance,” he spoke to the templar. “Things have been rather hectic of late. I trust you will understand.”

“Of course, Teyrn,” the gruff man replied. He stretched his hand toward Phoebe, fingers splayed wide. Muttering some words under his breath he presented his palm, then clenched his fingers tightly into a fist. Suddenly Phoebe felt as if her breath had been taken away. Something had changed. Her father made no sign of having felt it, and the templar only gave a guarded nod.

“It is done?” Bryce asked.

“It is done.”

“What is done?” Phoebe asked in a frail whisper. She didn’t need an answer, the sudden loss of magic left her gasping for breath, as if she had just surfaced from underwater.

“How long?” her father asked of the templar.

“Several hours, it’s hard to be precise when they’re so young.”

“And there’s no chance of having one of you lot stationed here to permanently control her?” The words permeated Phoebe’s new awareness of being without magic. She felt a dark heavy sensation form in her stomach as she realised that what she was, this now very visible mage in an upstanding family, was not something her father found acceptable. The future she had long expected, but had naively hoped to avoid, was upon her. Phoebe Cousland was going to the Circle of Magi.

“They will treat you well, so long as you obey the rules and keep to yourself. None of the silly games you and your sister used to play,” Phoebe kept her head lowered, her eyes fixed determinedly on her hands as they lay entwined on her lap. As her father invoked thoughts of her sister, tears sprang unbidden to the young girl’s eyes. Thea was going to be alright, that much she knew, but the black hole of guilt still sat there, gnawing away at her insides.

“Yes ser,” she spoke deferentially, her words clipped to hold back the wave of emotion. Phoebe could feel the tingling cold sensation in her fingertips that warned her that her magic was trying to do something. Closing her eyes she focused on suppressing the energy, she was in enough trouble as it was, to lose control in the carriage with her father would make things a dozen times worse. Not to mention the weird reassurance she got from her inherent power was far preferable to the cold nothingness she felt when the templar cut her off. They were in a privately hired carriage, a templar sat beside the driver and another at the rear. A trio of templars rode alongside on their own horses. It seemed a lot of security for one small girl.

“Whilst there you shall use your mother’s maiden name; this should spare you any problems you might have using our name,” Phoebe bit back a snide response. So this was the truth of it; not only banished but disowned. Not formally, oh no - that would be too public, and never explicitly for the sake of the family. For her own good, whether she liked it or not, she was to be Phoebe Cousland no more. Phoebe Mac Eanraig would be a nobody. A nobody who shared a face with the youngest child of Teyrn Bryce Cousland.

“Yes ser,” she repeated. There was nothing else to say. She had lost everything.


	3. 3 - Meet Cute (Fluff)

The morning bells chimed, dragging Phoebe from her nightly fade walk. In a practised movement she rose from the bed, immediately straightening the covers and smoothing down the bed. She glanced around the dormitory, seeking out her friends in the low light and giving each of them a warm smile. Neria was by her side within moments of their setting off on the morning’s shuffle out into the hallways where they lined up against each side of the corridor. The slight elf took hold of Phoebe’s hands and they giggled together as they waited for their turn in the girls’ washrooms. Across the corridor Daylan and Jowan were sharing a joke, their heads bowed together.

Phoebe and Neria had moved faster, and so they disappeared into their boy-free area whilst the two humans still stood in their own line. Two templars stood at the door, allowing the girls in four at a time. Inside the room was a third templar; this morning it was Knight-Corporal Desmond, an older man who kept his eyes lifted high so as not to ogle the female apprentices. Phoebe felt a rush of relief that their chaperone that morning was one of the more pious templars rather than the few lecherous ones who would stand their watching with barely concealed interest, hoping to catch a glimpse of flesh before the girls donned their trainee mage robes. It took barely a moment for Phoebe’s relief to still as she noticed the new templar standing beside Desmond. New, the white sash about his waist marked him as having not yet said his vows and fully joined the Templar Order. He was young; not more than two years her senior, and looked thoroughly overwhelmed. Blonde curls topped his head, and he stood tall in slightly over-sized armour. To his credit, the boy followed his mentor’s example, steadfastly avoiding looking in the direction of the girls’ changing area. Instead his eyes were on the door, meeting Phoebe’s as she studied him. When she realised she had been spotted, Phoebe immediately ducked her eyes, a warm flush rising to her cheeks. She silently scolded herself for her deferential actions. He was in training as much as she was, and when mages were qualified they were freed of the templars’ restrictive control. Pausing only a moment in her movement she lifted her eyes once more, meeting his honey gold eyes. The tiniest smile pulled at his lips before he stilled his face.

Neria’s hand tugged at Phoebe’s and the moment was broken. She grinned, laughing more at herself than at the young templar, and hurried alongside her best friend. The apprentice clothing was laid out in size-separated piles, and each girl rushed to select a dress in a colour she preferred. The robes themselves were pretty, but heavy and cut a little too tight in the hem so as to make them cumbersome. Phoebe lifted up a navy blue dress with cream and purple panelling in the skirt, whilst Neria opted for an olive-green dress with a quilted section over the bodice, and thick golden brown belt detailing. Dropping the dresses on the changing benches, firmly marking them to the rooms other occupants as reserved, the girls added appropriately sized shifts and undergarments to their piles, along with woollen stockings and thick leather slippers. Before dressing they approached a bowl of warm, almost-clean water and splashed their faces clean. Wash day was once a week, but they were encouraged to keep clean on the other six days. They dressed quickly, trying to minimise the amount of skin they revealed, even despite the more trustworthy guards.

Phoebe didn’t even glance at the templar again on the way out, instead she focused on Neria and their speculations on what might be on offer for breakfast. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered whether the boy was looking at her, and then whether she wanted to him to be looking at her.

Laughter rang through the corridors of the Circle tower, hurriedly followed with a gentle shushing.

“Sorry Petra,” Phoebe shot back lightly, giggling again but quieter this time as she scurried past the open library doors, following her three friends to their first class of the day.

“Still nursing that crush, eh?” Daylan joked. Phoebe rolled her eyes and playfully batted at him.

“In your dreams, Daylan Amell,” she chided him. As the corridor took them round the tower and toward the classroom Phoebe fell silent. There was the new templar again; this time guarding the entryway alongside Knight-Corporal Desmond. She had more time to study him as they approached the classroom, there was definitely a youthful face beneath those tight golden curls. A youthful face with very defined jawline, Phoebe corrected herself, starting to see the signs of adulthood in the fresh-faced new templar. Daylan, Jowan and Neria continued their conversation as the four students passed through the doorway. Not one of her friends noticed as Phoebe plastered a serene look on her face, pinning their new guard with her striking grey eyes. Cousland eyes, a small voice in her head pointed out before being quickly muted - mages didn’t have families, didn’t get to use their last names. The templar met her gaze and faltered, a look of uncertainty temporarily crossing his face before he cleared his throat and looked away.

The lesson seemed no different than any other; Wynne had them all practising their potions and poultices, so everyone was quietly getting on with things. There was a rumour that one of the older students would be heading up to their Harrowing soon and so all the teachers seemed determined to go over the basics. The impending threat of a Harrowing meant everyone was more jumpy than usual. Phoebe couldn’t concentrate, uppermost in her mind was a knot of anxiety around their losing a classmate either to the upper echelons of the Tower, or to wherever those who failed the Harrowing were sent. Beneath that level of stress, or rather in addition to it, Phoebe couldn’t seem to draw her thoughts from the new templar. He stood silently at the back of the classroom, paying her no particular heed and doing nothing to draw attention to himself. Every so often the more senior templar muttered something to him, but his answers were too quiet for Phoebe’s ears. All the same, Phoebe found herself fumbling; she produced too large a fire ball beneath her cauldron, so the first attempt at cooking up a distillation of rashvine ended up as a smouldering mess of burnt plants. When gathering the ingredients for her second attempt Phoebe had neglected to pull her gloves on fully, resulting in a burning, itching patch on her arm for the next five minutes after the toxic plant touched her skin. The final straw came at the close of the lesson. Phoebe was replacing the unused ingredients from her desk when her distraction caused the large pottery urn of frostrock to topple from its position on the desk, smashing on the floor and sending the glowing blue stones across the floor. Collectively the class let out a groan as Phoebe turned ashen-faced to Wynne.

“I’m so sorry,” she blurted out.

“Not to be helped. You shall simply have to stay late to collect them all up.” There was an icy silence colder than the scattered stones as the class realised as one that this meant their lunch was to be cut short.

“I will do it,” Phoebe protested. “Let everyone else go, and I’ll do it.” Wynne looked to the templars.

“I cannot stay with her; I have a meeting with the First Enchanter. Perhaps your boy could-?” Phoebe watch the young templar bristle at being called a ‘boy’. Knight-Corporal Desmond mused for a moment, then nodded his ascension.

“Very well,” he dictated. “Cullen, stay and oversee. When she is done, you may accompany the apprentice to the dining hall, then you may have your own lunch.”

“Yes ser,” the young templar, Cullen, accepted. He had the voice of a man, even if his face and posture belied his youth.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” Phoebe said sharply once the door had closed, leaving her alone with the undeniably handsome young man.

“I wasn’t looking at you in any way,” he retorted, his eyes fixed firmly upon her face.

“You weren’t?” the apprentice mage couldn’t put into words the flash of disappointment that rose and then fell within her. “Well you are now. Just look somewhere else.”

“You’re not going to do anything silly, are you?” he pressed.

“Like what? Throw something else on the ground?”

“I meant like escape. But that wouldn’t be good either.”

“Escape? We’re on the fifth floor. No escape out that window except a very messy death.”

“Alright, alright,” the boy raised his hands in defeat. “I shall look at the ceiling.”

“Or you could bloody help me,” Phoebe knew immediately that she had pushed too hard on the unspoken boundary between templar and mage. A nervous thrill ran through her at the sheer idiocy of her question. He might only be a trainee, but he was reporting to the Knight-Corporal. Anything he reported back would mark her out as being troublesome; not a label one wanted to earn. Mages had been made tranquil for less. Phoebe bit her tongue as she realised the potential consequences of her words. All the same, the templar started to walk across the room toward her.

“I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry,” she hastily attempted to retract her words. “You don’t have to-”

“It will speed things up,” he grunted, starting to gather the larger chunks of frostrock with his gauntlet-clad hand. “It’s cold. What do you use it for?”

“Ice salves, freeze traps,” she shrugged, her numb fingers scrabbling for more of the lyrium-infused stones. “It takes the tranquil an age to ensorcel them.”

“The tranquil?” Cullen pressed. Phoebe lifted her head, fixing him with a confused stare.

“You know; the tranquil. Andraste’s arse, you really are green if you don’t know what the tranquil are. They’re aberrants; mages who couldn’t keep a handle on things. Much better put to work as tranquil - they can handle raw lyrium, so they do a lot of the enchanting here in the Circle, which you already knew,” she realised. “Why ask?”

“I was curious as to how you would explain it,” he answered simply, as if she should have figured that out. “Does it scare you? The possibility of being made tranquil?”

“No,” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “I’m never going to do anything to risk that happening to me.”

“How old are you?” It was three weeks later and Enchanter Leorah had asked for a volunteer to harvest some Crystal Grace after their evening lesson. After Keili’s ascension to fully fledged mage, the whispers had begun about who might be next to face the ultimate test. Phoebe didn’t think it would be her, but a stubborn competitive streak forced her to up her game just in case. That Cullen had been present in the class, and had been once again volunteered to escort her was only a minor influence in her offer to take on the task. Gardening gloves on and secateurs in hand she made herself appear busy before casually throwing out the question.

“Almost eighteen,” Cullen shot back, pacing round the greenhouse and peering at the different plants.

“I wouldn’t touch any of them if I were you,” Phoebe warned, her voice gently teasing. “The tall grey-ish one has some pretty lethal thorns hidden beneath its leaves, and the rashvine over there leaves you feeling like shit if it touches your skin.” Cullen gave a low laugh, raising his armour-encrusted hands and waggling his fingers.

“I don’t think I have to worry about that,” he assured.

“Hmm,” came the unconvinced response. Phoebe lifted her eyes from the large white flowers and watched as the templar took a half step away from the nearest pot plant.

“How about you?” he asked, his tone conversational. “How old are you?”

“Turned seventeen some time in the past few months,” Phoebe returned.

“You don’t know your birthday?” The naivete in Cullen’s voice surprised Phoebe, causing her to wonder how he’d got this far into becoming a templar without really knowing anything about mages or their living conditions.

“Of course I know my birthday; ninth of Harvestmere. I’m guessing we’re into Firstfall now?” the templar lifted his head to indicate it was. “They don’t tend to tell us trivial things like the date, or what is going on out there,” she gestured up toward the glass ceiling of the hothouse, fogged up by the heating spells keeping the plants alive throughout the winter. Night had fallen early, lending support to Phoebe’s assumption that it was winter.

“Second of Firstfall,” Cullen confirmed. “Though you didn’t hear it from me.”

“I’ll be a full mage soon enough,” Phoebe declared with a confidence she didn’t really feel. “Then I can go back out into the world and I’ll always know what day it is,” she shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever,” she sighed. “It is what it is.”

“What was your life like before you came here?” the tentative question earned a harsh bark of laughter.

“Before I came here?” she sputtered. “Before I came here I was Phoebe Cousland; daughter of the teyrn of Highever. Had I not been different I would have been competing against my twin sister for the hand of Prince Cailan.”

“King Cailan,” Cullen corrected.

“I don’t suppose he married Thea Cousland?”

“I’m afraid not. His wife is Queen Anora,” this revelation prompted another sharp laugh.

“Anora Mac Tir, well played,” she sighed. “Gwaren won this round. I bet father was furious. You shouldn’t tell me anymore,” the confession fell heavily from her lips. “We’re not supposed to know much about out there in case it makes us too emotional.”

“Oh,” Cullen didn’t seem to know what to say.

“Don’t worry,” Phoebe forced a smile. “I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“I’m so stupid,” Phoebe scowled, sitting down heavily on an upturned bucket.

“You’re not stupid,” Cullen crooned, closing the door that connected the storage cupboard to the laundry room. “Never apologise for ambition. Your time will come.”

“I’m glad for Neri, really I am. Maker, I must sound like the shittest friend, getting all weepy because she was picked before me.”

“Neria has been here four years longer than you. There’s no way you’ll be apprentice this time next year, I’m sure.”

“What’s the date today?” Phoebe sniffed.

“Seventeenth of Cloudreach,” her eyes widened. Time passed so much quicker without the means of ticking the days off.

“Daylan will be next,” she sighed, angry at herself for allowing the progression of others to so severely dent her confidence. “Then it will just be me and Jowan.” At the mention of the fourth member of her group Cullen shifted uneasily. “What? Is he next?”

“No, no, it’s nothing,” Cullen backtracked hastily. “It’s just -” he broke off at the sound of footsteps in the laundry room. His face blanched unbelievably pale as they waited, barely breathing.

“Phoebe?” a distant voice called.

“Wynne,” Phoebe whispered. “She’s safe.” Cullen gulped, then turned away from her tear-stained face and opened the door.

“In here, Senior Enchanter,” he called. “She just needed a little privacy.”

“Thank you templar,” Wynne drew past him and into the crowded store room. “I shall bring her upstairs shortly.”

“Certainly,” he glanced back once, then disappeared from view.

“Oh sweetheart,” Wynne offered Phoebe a hand, and drew the young apprentice to her feet. “Be careful with that one. He can never understand the responsibilities those of us with magic face every day.”

“We were just talking,” Phoebe sniffed, wiping at her eyes with the sleeves of her robes.

“I know, love, I know. Just hold onto your strength. The Harrowing is not something you want to enter into until you are ready, and even then it is not the freedom you wish it to be. Find physical solace in the boy if you must, but keep the walls around your heart and mind. Any infraction, no matter how small, will be held against you, not him. Always remember stains stick to our robes; they slide right off their armour.”


	4. 18 - Corset/Lingerie (Kink)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a Kink chapter. Consider this your adult content warning.

Making her excuses, Phoebe left Zevran in the kitchens, gathering together any food that had survived the weeks of abandonment. The bloodstains were painfully obvious, dragging her awareness back to the charred bodies in the courtyard, the empty stables, the scorch marks that covered half of the east wing. It was almost impossible to reconcile this broken smoke-smelling building with the warm and welcoming place she had once called home. Even despite the time that had passed and the changes in both herself and the house, Phoebe found herself automatically climbing the stairs, her feet leading her to the family’s living quarters. The bloodstains were worse here; tell-tale streaks where bodies had been dragged out. Phoebe passed the door to Fergus’ room - it hung slightly open but she made no move to explore within. She had never met her sister-in-law or her nephew, but had mourned them nonetheless. She would have to enter their quarters eventually if there was to be any chance of restoring this fine house to its former glory, but for now her priority was self-preservation, and there were some things she just didn’t want to see.

The room she had once shared with Thea, what seemed like many lifetimes ago, was at the end of the corridor. Their door stood opposite their parents’ door - never a good thing when you were two young children trying to stifle giggles lest you be heard and scolded for staying up too late. Phoebe’s eyes dragged over the open door to her parents’ quarters, thinking for a moment she could hear her mother’s footsteps, or her father’s rustling of papers as he sat in his private study. It was amazing how some things were rushing back to her; the sights and sounds of her youth, but still she was struggling to picture their faces, or to remember the sounds of their voices. These people who had birthed her, had raised her for part of her childhood, and who had sent her away - they were strangers to her in many ways, fleeting memories she could not flesh out. She turned on her heel and pushed open the door to her old bedroom.

Where once there had been two sturdy wooden beds, each one covered in a brightly embroidered bedspread, there was just the one large bed, a dust-covered eiderdown of Antivan satin lay tousled above the more practical linen coverlet. The furniture was all askew, drawers opened and ransacked, fabric everywhere. Phoebe could imagine Howe’s soldiers rummaging through the room in search of anything of any value. With a low sigh, she started to pick through the remains, lifting each garment carefully and smoothing out the rumpled fabrics almost reverently. She looked down at her own robes; stained and ripped and certainly not something her mother or father would have allowed in the house. As she tidied the clothing she started sorting the various items into two piles; one of finery that was clearly worth a lot of money, not that the murderous bastards had noticed, and one of more practical outfits. Thea wasn’t here to be asked, but Phoebe held out hope that her long lost sister would not begrudge her a clean set of clothing or two.

She lifted the dressing table stool to its feet and tucked it in, then started returning drawers to their homes, making a little sense of the topsy turvy bedchamber. It didn’t seem as homely as she had expected it too - there was a strange, unexpected frisson of being in someone else’s private space. So little remained of her happy childhood that Phoebe almost overlooked the small figurine on the dressing table. Her hand passed over the dark wooden creature before her eyes registered what it was.

“Oh,” she sighed, her voice breaking the silence for a moment. She lifted the object, a small but heavy carving of a mabari hound. It had been hers. Thea had had a similar object, but hers had been a horse. Phoebe pushed debris and discarded fabric aside until she found it. They were unmistakably a pair, just as she and Thea had been a pair. The two wooden figurines had been birth gifts from some far flung Arl looking to curry favour with their father, but for some reason they, more than many other gifts, had stuck with the girls as they had grown.

Memories rose and fell within her as Phoebe spun to face the bed, taking a moment to orient herself, then dropping softly to kneel on the floor. She felt around, tapping on the wooden floorboards until she found the short length of wood she had been looking for. It had once been equidistant between their beds, she remembered as she dug the tips of her fingers into the cracks between the wooden slats, and pulled up the shorter plank. Her eyes widened as she took in the contents of their secret hiding place. In her memory the hidden trove had contained sweets, ripped stockings she hadn’t dared admit to Nanny needed darning _again_, and once a small penknife that they had stolen from Fergus. Now it was quite a different sight, Phoebe couldn’t help but to smile as she unveiled the secret treasures of Thea Cousland. The nook had been extended a little each way, creating quite the cache of adult content. Phoebe reached in and retrieved a bottle, tilting it against the light to read its label; it was some sort of Antivan oil, with decidedly saucy imagery on the label making it quite clear why Thea had thought it necessary to hide it. Next to be lifted out was a small slip of material immediately recognisable to Phoebe as a blindfold. Several pairs of stockings came next; not the sturdy childish ones of their past, but impossibly delicate and topped with lace. Larger clothing came out next; a barely present negligee and a small assortment of corsetry. Finally came an ornate wooden box with mother of pearl inlay in the shape of a blousey dahlia. Phoebe unlatched the intricate closure and opened the lid to find a long, cylindrical object, undeniably phallic in design. She gave a short chuckle as she closed the box and returned it to its hiding spot. Without being able to explain why, Phoebe felt a surge of pride and happiness that her sister had grown into a young woman, seemingly as comfortable with her own needs and desires as Phoebe herself was. She carefully returned the objects, then after a moment’s consideration retrieved the simplest of the corsets; a sturdy cream leather with impressively strong boning, and thick corded laces. A bronzed lace overlay gave it a more elegant finish. Phoebe added a pair of sheer cream stockings to her haul, and then on a final whim lifted up the blindfold. She half assumed that Thea wouldn’t mind her borrowing a few things, and half assumed she would never see her sister again, and so would never be found out.

As she slipped out of her ruined travelling clothes, Phoebe caught sight of her naked body in a shard of looking glass which had fallen from the dressing table. She had lost a little of her puppy fat in the weeks of travelling and the scant eating that had been necessary. Slowly she turned this way and that, observing her womanly form from multiple angles. It had been such a long time since she had felt attractive, sexy even. Lying with Zevran whenever they both felt like a little intimacy was one thing, but he seemed permanently in rut, and so it was easy to convince herself that she was just a willing partner, and nothing particularly special. There had been times, she thought, back in the Circle. The memories escaped her whenever she attempted to call upon them, she supposed it was probably Daylan Amell in those illusive flashes of emotion. She recalled desperate hands frantically pulling open someone’s breeches, a hot pair of lips against hers, heavy breaths as someone cupped her breasts, the warm earthy scent of her partner. Blushing at the memory, Phoebe offered a cheeky wink to her reflection, then pulled on the smallest drawers she had ever seen; they barely covered her buttocks, and left nothing to the imagination. The stockings went on next. Phoebe took her time, working very carefully so as to not snag or tear the delicate material. Finally she loosened the already-laced corset and pulled it up over her legs and hips until it sat against her chest and stomach. It took a little contorting but eventually she managed to take hold of the right cords in each hand and with a steady pulling motion to each side she started to pull the structured lingerie tight. As she pulled the laces she felt her spine straighten, her posture immediately improved as she lifted her breasts upward and rolled her shoulders back. As her waist was nipped inward Phoebe couldn’t help but to feel the glow of body-confidence. Her ample breasts threatened to spill over the lacy top of the garment, whilst the fabric sucked inward and then flared out over her hips. Satisfied that the corset was as tight as she could comfortably wear it, Phoebe tied the cords into a bow, feeling the dangling tips brushing against the backs of her thighs. She glanced toward the two piles of clothing, torn between adding a layer of finery, or just remaining in just the underwear and enjoying the feeling of being desirable.

A soft step outside the door made Phoebe’s decision for her. She tore her eyes from the expensive dresses to look at her travelling partner, one hand coquettishly on her hip. A small slip of a whimper crossed her lips as she realised the figure pushing into the room wasn’t her elven companion but was someone taller, broader, and with a murderous expression on his face. His black hair was drawn back behind his head, revealing a sour face, yet one with undeniable noble bearing. A clean, unblemished breastplate bore a horribly familiar sigil. The brown bear of Amaranthine atop white and yellow meant that this could only be one of Howe’s men.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he declared, lifting one arm and drawing Phoebe’s attention to the shortsword he carried.

“I have more right than you,” she retorted, giving no thought to hiding her identity. She raised her hands, allowing small crackles of light blue energy to run over her fingers.

“Who-”

“You are one of Howe’s men?” it was an accusation more than a question. “My name is Phoebe Elissa Cousland, daughter of one of the most fearsome battle maidens Ferelden has ever seen. Your master brought unspeakable to my home, he cut down my mother, my father, countless others, but he did not reckon on me. You will leave this second and fetch your arl. Bring him here so that he might answer to my charges and see death at my hands.” Something about being clad in so little as she stood before this startled man seemed to imbue Phoebe with confidence. “Well?”

“Would that I could, m’lady,” came the somewhat abashed response. “I don’t think my word would have any effect on Rendon Howe.”

“Yet you wear his livery,” Phoebe pressed, her fingers sparking further. Her enemy lowered his sword a fraction. “Explain yourself.”

“I am Nathaniel Howe. Your enemy is my father.” Phoebe snarled, discharging a lightning bolt into the door frame mere inches from his face.

“Give me one reason not to kill you right now,” she spat, anger boiling through her veins.

“In a way I wish you would, it would make things so much easier,” Nathaniel drawled, his voice tired as he spread his arms wide, his sword pointing at the floor. “If it would please you, m’lady, take aim.” Phoebe frowned.

“Remorse?” she asked. “You have grown tired of killing unarmed women, servants, children?” he flinched at each venom-filled accusation.

“I was not here,” his voice was earnest, but Phoebe had no inclination to trust the words he spoke. “I was squiring for my mother’s cousin in the Free Marches. Word reached us of what my father had done and I came straight here.”

“Running at his whistle to take your place beside his throne like a dog?”

“Not precisely. I only thought to save Ser Rudolphe the embarrassment of being any more associated with the Howe family than was necessary.” As he spoke, Nathaniel tossed his sword toward the bed. It landed softly, closer to Phoebe’s reach than his position in the doorway. Not that Phoebe had been drilled in how to use a sword. She had never needed physical weapons to defend herself.

“Your father is not here. I see no reason for you to be here,” she dismissed him coldly.

“I offer my life as recompense,” he dropped to his knees, his eyes fixed on hers. “Use me as ransom, let me fight for you, give me some chance to undo what my father-”

“Undo?” Phoebe’s voice was barely a whisper, yet it stopped Nathaniel mid-sentence. “How are you going to undo any of this? You come to my house, wearing that damn bear, and you want to undo what he did?” Barely a second passed before Nathaniel started unbuckling his armour, dropping the contentious plate metal to the floor without hesitation.

“I renounce it,” he uttered hoarsely. “I renounce every last one of them.” Phoebe stared at the man for a moment, he seemed so open, so broken, but she couldn’t find an ounce of sympathy for him. Discovering one had evil parents was a world away from losing what was left of a traumatic childhood. Folding her arms tightly about herself, Phoebe turned her back on him and walked toward the window. She could feel warm wet tears on her cheeks before she realised she was crying. Body-shaking sobs broke from her; gasping breaths and a rising hysteria.

There was movement behind her, the clinking of armour plates meeting as the murderer’s son rose to his feet. Phoebe waited, her breathing stilled, to hear him leave the room, but she quickly realised the noise was growing closer.

“Please-” his voice was too close. His breaths were hitching as if he too were on the edge of falling to pieces. His hand touched her shoulder. Phoebe let out a cry of rage, turning to face him, her fists raised.

“Don’t touch me,” she sobbed as she rained blows against his armour-free chest. “I lost everything.” Nathaniel stood, his eyes wet with tears, accepting every strike. “I hate you, I hate you,” the fire of Phoebe’s hatred was doused almost as quickly as it had flared as her fists slowed their attack. Where her fury had burned in her chest, there was an empty nothingness. Phoebe supposed, not for the first time, that perhaps during the Harrowing she might have lost her soul, might have become something less than she had been before. Some part of her was missing, she knew that for sure. This ongoing flirtation with Zevran, this reckless series of misadventures taking her to every corner of Ferelden. This all had to be coming from somewhere, or some inner need.

Her palms rested on Nathaniel’s chest, his shaky breaths belying his high emotions. His hands were on her waist, a subtle warmth over the rigid bones of the corset. Phoebe pressed a little closer, her confined breasts meeting his chest. Not a typical warrior build, she noted, although he was certainly military-trained. The broad shoulders were solidly clan in muscle, but his waist tapered inward and he lacked the bulk of a true swordsman. Before she knew what she was doing, Phoebe lifted her head, pressing her lips to Nathaniel’s. Tears mixed on their cheeks as he returned the kiss for a moment before pulling away, his hands holding tightly to her waist as he pushed her away.

“What-”

“Shut up,” Phoebe growled, her voice low with need. “Don’t say a word,” she let her hands fall to her side, placing them on top of Nathaniel’s. Her forefingers rubbed softly over the back of his hands as she held his gaze. “You want to fix this? To fix me? Not happening. So just fuck me. Make me feel something.”

“I- You don’t want to-” he stammered, although his hands remained firmly on her waist. She held on tighter to him.

“Please,” her bravado failed her. “I need to feel something.” He remained silent for an interminably long time, his pale blue eyes giving nothing away.

Faced with impending rejection, Phoebe swatted at his hands, trying to wrestle her way away from the situation. Fire burned in her cheeks as her embarrassment grew.

“You should leave,” she snarled, breaking away and taking a step away. Nathaniel reached out and caught her hand in his. With his other hand he deftly unbuckled the plate armour around his waist, letting it drop to the floor. With a silent intensity he pulled her closer, ducking his head to press a kiss against the side of her neck. His hands dropped lower, cupping her buttocks as he trailed his kisses across her collar bone and the tops of her breasts. Phoebe gasped in surprise at the strength of his fervour. She reached behind her to unlace her corset, but Nathaniel stopped her with a word.

“Don’t,” he breathed. “Leave it on.” He pushed her back toward the bed, firm in his actions as he sent her tumbling back onto the plush fabric-covered mattress. Phoebe barely had time to marvel over the softness of a real bed, Nathaniel had disposed of his armoured boots in no time at all, and was atop her, one knee pushing between her thighs as he loomed over her. There was a moment’s hesitation, as if he were waiting for her to protest, but she had no intention of doing such a thing. The intensity of his actions was raising her arousal at an alarming rate. His mouth met hers as she pressed the thin fabric of her skimpy drawers against the strong muscles of his thigh. Mewling with wanton lust she rolled her hips, rubbing her core against him, the sensation almost unbearably pleasant.

Phoebe’s palm found a large bulge in the front of Nathaniel’s trousers. She deftly cupped it, moving her hand a little and enjoying the immediate reaction that garnered. The constricting corset meant there wasn’t much she could do on her back - her spine was held straight and he outweighed her substantially. She had no doubt that he would stop if she commanded it, but the feeling of being at his mercy was surprisingly exciting. Nathaniel replaced his knee with his hand, rubbing one knuckle against the fine material between her legs. She bucked her hips at the heightened sensation, breathing heavily as she yearned for release.

“Fuck me,” she insisted, squirming under his ministrations.

“As you wish,” he grunted, retreating from her swollen nub for a split second. Without warning he seized her by her waist, helping her up and motioning for her to turn over. A thin smile on her lips, Phoebe allowed herself to be manoeuvred onto her hands and knees in the centre of the bed, anticipation building within her as she awaited Nathaniel’s next move. For a moment she thought of the blindfold, set aside earlier as she had donned the lingerie. A dark voice in her head thought ‘_Next time_’ just as another part of her mind resolved that she would rather kill this man than see him again. This would be solely a one-time event.

Her knees were pushed further apart and the bed sank a little as he assumed his position. His finger pushed the material of her drawers aside, she held her breath as she felt the tip of one finger slip inside her, parting her lips and finding her more than receptive. The finger was removed and she held still, tense and aching to be filled.

Nathaniel pressed home in one firm movement. Phoebe let out an ecstatic moan as she felt his thighs slam into hers.

“Fuck,” she breathed out. “Again.” Compliant, he pulled almost all the way out, then surged forward again, letting out a low grunt of his own. Phoebe keened, an animalistic sound as she met his tempo, rocking forward as he pulled back, then swinging her hips back to meet his approach. Hatred warred with longing as she pushed back onto his cock again and again. She could feel his hands on her waist once more, pulling her back toward him as he increased the pace, pounding into her in a way that Zevran never had. Not that Phoebe had the time to compare the two. Each thrust brought sound to her lips, half panting, half moaning, she lost herself to the rhythm. It almost didn’t matter who it was behind her; the betrayer’s son could be anyone. What mattered was the feel of him within her, the way her inner muscles were clenching around his cock each time he drove into her. With each exertion she felt a little bit of herself slip away. Lost in the sheer physical passion she didn’t have to be the mage on the run, or the forgotten daughter. She didn’t have to be the orphan whose sister was on a one-woman quest to save the world. She didn’t have to be the disappointment. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she felt her orgasm break. Waves of pleasure mixed with endless emotional pain as she felt Nathaniel shudder behind her; his completion spurred on by her own.

And then he withdrew, leaving her backside suddenly bare, chilled, and a little sore from the exertions. Phoebe rolled to her side, her hands behind her back and clawing at the corset laces. She pulled desperately at each one, fully unlacing the undergarment until it peeled away from her sticky torso. Freed from its constraints she could suddenly breathe again, and she lay there for a moment breathing heavily. A sticky wetness ran between her legs, calling up a twinge of guilt at the defilement of such a fancy bedspread. The absurdity of the thought spurred her into movement.

Pushing herself up, Phoebe wiped the tears from her cheeks and stared down at Nathaniel for a moment. He looked lost, his own tears flowing freely as he sat on the floor, his knees raised up before him.

“That won’t happen again,” she spoke, her voice wavering only a little. She meant her words, although she wasn’t so confident her body would be able to resist should Nathaniel show any further interest. “You will help restore my family’s residence to its former glory. You will help ensure my brother and sister are successful in this civil war your father has started.” Nathaniel nodded his understanding.

“Do my sister and brother live?” he asked, his voice coloured with anguish. “When your family are restored and their missions fulfilled. Or are they to be killed? I make no arguments for my father or my mother, they have always been cruel. Delilah is good. She and Fergus were close once,” Phoebe looked away, her lips pursed. she did not need to be reminded of yet another of her failings. Fergus and Delilah had all but been betrothed at one point in their lives. Phoebe’s magic had cursed the union along with the rest of the family. Not long after her incarceration Fergus and Delilah had parted ways and no talk of their joining was ever mentioned again. “Thomas is just a child.”

“We Couslands do not murder innocents,” she said coldly, rising to her feet and crossing the room to the pile of more practical clothing. Showing none of her rising self-consciousness, Phoebe removed the soiled underwear and the astonishingly un-damaged stockings and dressed herself in her missing sister’s clothing, picking a practical set of riding clothes from the selection. Wearing breeches felt very unusual after a life lived in robes and dresses. Phoebe pulled on a pair of boots to complete the outfit and took a quick glance in the looking glass. She didn’t look like herself anymore. That seemed fitting as she didn’t much feel like herself either. The sense of loneliness and emptiness had not been filled by whatever had just transpired between her and Nathaniel.

“I will be in the kitchen with my companion. Do join us for dinner at your earliest convenience,” she announced in a voice that did not seem to be her own. It was all she could do to keep her composure as she sauntered from the room.

Head held high she fought every instinct and maintained a steady speed until she was far enough from the family quarters that her footfalls would not be heard. Then she ran, tracing half-forgotten pathways through the castle and out into the dying light of the early evening. She ran until her legs ached and her breath was coming in short painful gasps. The sea sparkled before her, hints of orange and pink reflected on its waves as it crashed against the cliffs beneath her. She could jump, the thought entered her head like a butterfly alighting on a flower. It paused there, then disappeared behind thoughts of Thea and Fergus. She would see them safe and as content as they could be. Then she would think about whether she had a future.

A long stroll back meant it was almost fully dark as she returned to her family home. At some point in the journey she had acquired a shadow, and so it wasn’t a complete surprise to her that she was followed into the house by a large grey-black shape.

“You must be Captain Beauregard,” she remarked with the barest hint of a smile. “Someone we both know told me you were dead.” The large mabari’s side was marred with dried blood, and the dog walked with a pronounced limp. “Not quite, eh?” Phoebe continued. “Come on then, let’s get you fixed up.”


End file.
